


The Final Farewell

by aliaoftwoworlds



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Closure, Gen, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), but bittersweet angst, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 06:18:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18750745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliaoftwoworlds/pseuds/aliaoftwoworlds
Summary: In a far corner of the universe, a guardian stands in front of an anomaly.And a warrior made of light and metal concludes a long journey to stand in front of the guardian.





	The Final Farewell

**Author's Note:**

> I still haven’t seen Endgame, but I know most of the major spoilers, and this idea popped into my head the other day (between sobs, you know how it is) and wouldn’t let me go. So have a bittersweet sort of closure story, even though it’s set decades after the movie. It’s written in kind of vague terms just because I think that’s how an ancient alien would think, but there’s not meant to be ambiguity here. This is an adult Morgan.
> 
> This is sort of a strange experiment with writing style, I’m not sure if I like it, but here it is.
> 
> Anyway, now that this is out of my system, I’ll be back to my irregularly scheduled other stuff (aka bitterness and trying to finally finish Electric Veins so I can start on some of my other long stories).

This place is ancient.

Older than memory, for most. Perhaps for all. Even the Guardian doesn’t know its beginning. The Guardian doesn’t remember its own beginning, precisely; only that this is its duty, to watch and to protect this place.

There was once something more here. An entire civilization, now nothing more than crumbled remains. All of it built around what the Guardian now watches.

It’s been called many things, by many beings. An anomaly. A rift, a tear, an intersection. A gift from the gods and a nightmare, a place to be idolized and strived for and one to be avoided at all costs.

The names do not matter to the Guardian. The place exists, and these beings will be drawn to it like insects chasing a light, following instincts they do not understand. They cannot comprehend that they will be destroyed by the flames they throw themselves into.

They come here, to this place, looking for something they will never find. Some come with a purpose, and leave without one, if they leave at all. Some come out of desperation, hoping to find something, and they leave emptier than they arrived.

But not all. Some stand out. Some have come for different reasons, and those are the few that the Guardian remembers. Not their species nor their names, if they have them, but their imprint. The meaning that they imparted on this place.

Another arrives, like all the rest. Battered and exhausted by a long journey here. The journey itself is a test that sifts out so many. Those who make it this far think themselves important or worthy. The Guardian does not prove them otherwise—that is not its job. The abyss does that.

This one has an aura that the Guardian knows well. A strength that is rarely lacking in those who make it this far. It’s a warrior in a shining shell, looking to stare into the swirling junction between realms, as all those before it have. It moves to stand before the Guardian with singular purpose.

The Guardian speaks, in a voice meant to be understood by such tiny creatures. “You have come a long way.”

The warrior watches the Guardian, neither fearful nor arrogant. “I have,” it says, not offering more. There is no demand for answers or for the Guardian to move.

“What are you looking for?” The Guardian asks.

The warrior pauses, thinking before it speaks. A good quality. “I think you know what I’m looking for,” it says.

The Guardian does not know the specifics, nor does it care whether this insignificant mortal thinks it does. “Will you be lost?” It asks of the warrior instead. “Like so many of those before you?”

The warrior looks around, at the bodies scattered on the plains. Some are nothing more than dust, like the crumbling remains of those who once thought to build a life around the anomaly. Some are preserved as bones and clothing. A few still have recognizable faces. Time moves strangely in this place, perhaps because of the anomaly, or perhaps in spite of it. Things that should have been long decayed stay for eons beyond. The warrior is not perturbed by the sight. “I have no intention of getting lost.”

Many others have said the same thing. All with the same conviction, the same surety. Most have been wrong.

The Guardian moves aside. Gives the warrior its first glimpse of what it has come looking for. 

Something new happens. Not quite enough to interest the Guardian, but something to note. Unusual. The warrior makes a movement and its shining shell peels away. A different thing steps forward: the light, the fierce inner strength that makes up the warrior, encased in an infinitely fragile body. The metal armor reforms to stand guard over the true form of the mortal.

The warrior moves close to the point of connection, and then sits. It sits and stares into the abyss for what must seem a long time to its meager lifespan, but is barely a blink for the Guardian.

These things follow a pattern that is repeated time and time again, a cycle that has drawn this place into its grasp so firmly that the Guardian doubts it will ever be broken. The new warrior sits and stares into the rift, its soul connecting, pouring itself into the unknown. Its emotions, such fragile little things, spill outward. There is grief, there is confusion, there is the search. The Guardian does not know precisely what is on the other side of the junction—only that those who come to it, if they are strong—and unlucky—enough to find what they have come looking for, rarely return. They are consumed.

This warrior, however, is one of a rare few. Though it follows the pattern through to the joy that always comes when they find what they’re looking for, it does not become lost, as the Guardian expects. It only smiles, something secret and meant for itself, as its body sits in front of the void. It whispers to itself, words that are meaningless to the Guardian, but must be meaningful to the warrior.

Words that must mean everything, in fact, because something happens that the Guardian has not seen for a long time. The warrior is taken into the rift, pulled forward by a connection made between itself and something on the other side. A rare sight indeed.

The warrior’s shining shell remains, standing watch over the wisp of an outline that has remained behind, the wavering, insubstantial tether to this reality. The Guardian silently watches the metal, wondering how long it will continue to wait for its warrior, and what it will do if what returns is not what just went through the gateway.

The Guardian expects a poor return. For most of those few that make it this far, the breaking of the tether is not a pleasant experience. Beings are not meant to go through the rift at all, much less to be forcibly returned. Their minds fight what their bodies know is inevitable, and an unwilling return journey tears them apart.

But the warrior comes back, and it is not a poor return. It is not dragged back screaming, or an empty, blank ghost of itself. Its return is graceful, deliberate, and the deserted plains which the Guardian has watched for so many turnings of the universe echo with the overflowing emotions that return with the warrior.

The Guardian finds, for the first time in a very long time, that it is impressed by this mortal.

The warrior pauses upon its return. It turns back to look at the abyss, and it spends time in quiet contemplation. It bends to perform some personal ritual in front of the void, its movements meant only for whatever it purposely left on the other side. It repeats the whispered words that were enough to pull it through the gateway to another existence, this time only to itself.

The Guardian feels something that has not come in so long, it seems nearly novel. An urge, a meaning, a questioning. There is something it desires to learn from this creature.

“Very few are able to do what you have done,” the Guardian says, compelled to seek the answer to its question. “Most of those who cross the bridge between realities try to bring something back with them.”

The warrior simply watches the Guardian. There is a wisdom even in this tiny mortal. “You mean someone.”

The distinction does not matter to the Guardian, but it does not need to say this. The warrior speaks again.

“That’s not why I came.”

Again, the Guardian feels compelled to ask a question. It is not unsettling so much as simply unusual. Seeking knowledge is not wrong, not if it will help the Guardian understand more about those who come to it. “Why did you come?”

The warrior smiles, a sad thing. It is not meant for the Guardian. “I came to see… to be sure that he’s happy. And…” The warrior closes its eyes, drawing in air that the tears in its eyes, the emotion in its voice, has stolen. “And I came to say goodbye.”

The Guardian does not ask more. It does not need details. This is information it will have much time to contemplate, however long it will take before another arrives to stand before the rift.

The warrior returns to its armor, melds with it once again, and moves to leave. The Guardian knows it will not return. None ever do. Before it leaves, however, it pauses one last time, turns back, and poses a question to the Guardian. The first one it has asked.

“Is it possible? To bring someone back?”

The Guardian does not have to answer. It would not, for most who posed the question. But this warrior has proven itself in ways that most could not. There have been so few, in all of the Guardian’s time, that have ever been in this position. The Guardian will give it the truth that it has earned.

“It is possible. Most could not do it. The only ones who would succeed are those who would never try.”

The warrior knows the Guardian’s meaning. It understands, and it accepts. It does not say anything more, just departs, leaving behind its imprint on this place. It will keep a place in the Guardian’s mind and memory.

The Guardian does not wish for anything, it does not hope, or look forward, or dream. It only watches. But it can think. And it feels something now. Some measure of peace, perhaps, at the thought that this worthy warrior has found what it was looking for: not a miracle, but closure.


End file.
